October 3, 2011

Should we be scared?

I was too young for the Cuban missile crisis.
Too young to grasp the catatonic fear that lay behind those already scary words.
I remember the grownups though; my parents talking in hushed tones, the news anchor with his stern expression and his even more grave, more urgent, voice, recounting the latest nerve-wracking developments.
I remember, one night, my dad walking me to the corner store—dépanneurs we called them.
I remember men patrolling our neighbourhood. I remember barricades at each end of our road, and more men standing guard, one of them wearing a helmet. A World War II helmet. A German one.
“What are they doing?” I asked my dad.
“Keeping us safe son,” He said.
And I squeezed his hand a little harder as we walked by. Past people, people everywhere. Nervous people, apprehensive people. People completely terrified; nervous wrecks, chain-smoking Sweet Caporals, glancing skyward, expecting the worst. Praying for the best.

Okay. Okay.
Maybe I exaggerated that last bit.
Alright already. So maybe I made it up.
Yeah, the whole thing.
There were no men. No patrols. No late night walks past sentries and uniformed guards.
But there might have been.
I mean, what did I know about a missile crisis? I was only seven years old for crying out loud.
And even if I don’t remember that particular potential crise de coeur, I’m sure, to grownups, it was a scary time.
But to a seven year old? Pfft…

But, you know, the years unwind, and life, as per its own design and desire (if not necessarily mine), suddenly (or so it seemed) made me a grownup too.
And on my way to adulthood, I, all too often, stopped to snivel in my own generation’s versions of scary moments. Big ones, hyperbolic ones, end-of-the-world ones.
There was the Soviet Union; those big bad communists chafing at the bit, ever ready to fire their warheads in our direction. And then send the infantry in to finish off what the ICBMs failed to fry.
There was, too, my home turf—the province of Quebec—with its seventies version of home-spun terrorism.
We had the FLQ crisis, the Cross kidnapping and the Laporte murder.
We had the scourge of separatism and the threatened rampage of its evil stepchildren–unemployment, recession, civil war, and, as the final coup de grace, the potential invasion (or was it annexation?) by our friendly neighbour to the south.
We were warned too. Warned that the fall of a proud nation weighed upon us, should we do the unthinkable and vote for Monsieur Levesque and his Harvard-educated, British-sounding cronies (an irony that bemuses me still—separatists who spoke better English than federalists).

And the fear didn’t end there either.
The eighties brought double-digit inflation, and lending rates that gave orgasms to bankers.
We were, once again, headed for damnation; financial ruin, if the experts were to be believed, that is.
And, through it all, I believed.
Through it all, I was afraid.

Funny though.
Looking back, those scary events, most of them anyway, resulted in… nothing really.
There were dark moments, yes. They were dark episodes, true. And people—unfortunate innocent people—suffered.
But where was the cataclysm? Where was the destruction—to nationhood, to property and to freedom—that the experts had so gravely foreshadowed?
The PQ won the election, the helicopters were piloted out of Saigon, interest rates spiked, and Brezhnev sprouted his rhetoric.
And through it all, life went on. And the world didn’t come to an end.

I learned something though. Something important.
What I learned is that media and politicians are like little Skippy next door. The actual bark is always way worse than the threatened bite.
Let’s face it, fear sells. We all know that.
And no matter how much we remind ourselves of that fact, when something scary happens (or is about to) we’re attracted like moths to a hot, burning light. And we all know what happens to those moths.
So, for the sake of my own sanity and self-preservation, I perfected the fine art of skepticism. I learned to assume a yeah, right attitude.
Killer Bees? Y2K? SARS? H1N1? Yeah, right.

And now, and now…
We face another crisis.
One of a financial kind.
And even though I got damn good at ignoring so many other tales of impending doom; and even though I managed to, in the past, tune out those doomsayers—those Chicken Littles with credentials—here I am, today, wondering about this latest debt crisis.

In case you haven’t heard…
We have experts, journalists mostly, telling us things are going to get bad.
These experts are using serious words. Scary words.
Words like Default, and Bankruptcy and Depression.
And, in the other corner, we have opposing experts, politicians essentially, smoothing things over, assuring us in soothing voices that everything will be fine. Just a hiccup. A wee glitch, you see.

And here we are, those of us paying attention anyway, stuck in the middle, wondering what to make of this mess.
The question, therefore, is… Why am I telling you this?
Simple, really.
My theory is that people shouldn’t save for retirement. If you’re a regular reader, you’ll know my views on what I call The Retirement Myth.
Part II of my theory is that, rather than retirement, we should all actually be saving for a rainy day.

Which brings us to the point of this blogpost.
My point is, is this it? Are these the rainy days?
Well, if you listen to some experts, then yes, the rains will soon be upon us. Hard rain. Driving rain.
Two more things, then.
Are these experts right?
I don’t know. No one does, really.
Second thing.
If they are right, what should we do about it?
In my case, I’ve been reading up on what’s brought us to this threatened—this potential—abyss.
And over the next few weeks, I’d like to share with you some of what I’ve learned.
I believe you will find it interesting.

In the meantime, please tell me…
What do you think about all this? Are you worried? Are you paying it no mind?
Please let me know, I’d love to hear your views.

For those wondering why I’m not posting as often.
I’ve been busy. Busy with stuff. I have these workshops teed-up and happening. And I have another one in the planning phase, this one’s on cash-flow, cash-management. If you’re an entrepreneur, you’ll find it interesting and useful. It’ll be fun too. I’m making it creative. Gonna keep it lively. Yeah, I think you’ll like it.
Then, of course, there’s my latest book.
It’s in the works. It’s coming along.
The dead guy? The one I told you about who dies in Chapter One? He’s giving me a hard time; hesitant to divulge information, refusing to cooperate. Which, I guess is no surprise, given he’s dead and all.

In the meantime, if you’d like to read something par moi. Well, there’s always this book. If you haven’t read it, why not buy a copy.
If you have read it… uh, why not buy a second copy?
Okay, okay.
I’ll take my salesrep hat off.

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September 9, 2011

Money, meh

I deal in money. All day long. I deal in money.
Do you know what that’s like?
Those of you in IT; those of you in marketing; those of you in engineering, you probably think my work is sorta boring.
(Well, maybe not the engineers. Maybe the engineers see perverse beauty in number crunching. Oh the formulas! Oh the systemic logic! Debits = Credits? Yes! Yes!)
But the rest of you, I bet the rest of you would rather cuticle your toes than balance your chequebook–and yes, I know cuticle is a noun, not a verb. It’s just that I like the sound of it. Sue me.
Yeah, I bet that, to you, number crunching is one big yawn.
And you know what? For the most part, you’re right.

Because, at the end of the day, the mechanics of money are just so goddamn… um… mechanical.
Money in… Money out…
Earn more… Spend less…
(See? The engineers are right, what you’re looking at, right there, are your basic money equations).

All of which brings me to another aspect of money. An aspect I love exploring. An aspect that saves me from the… um.. drudgery.
What I’m talking about are the perceptions; the beliefs; the views of money.
What I’m talking about is the psychology of money.
The psychology of money?
What the heck does that mean?

It means this.
I bet most of you believe that more money will make your life better.
I bet most of you believe that infinitely more money will make your life infinitely better.
I bet most of you believe it would be great—really really great—to be rich.
Dirty rich, filthy rich, rotten rich.

I bet most of you believe that more money automatically equates with (choose all that apply):
1) Happiness
2) Success
3) Security
4) Accomplishment
5) Freedom

And you know what? If you believe any of the above.
Then all can say is (and please sit down)…
You’re wrong.

But hey, don’t take my word for it.
Don’t argue with me (although, truth be told, I’m up for a good debate).
Argue, instead, with the authors (the malefactors? the infidels?) of these two studies.

In a piece called The Economics of Happiness, Professor Jeffrey D. Sachs argues that, “The relentless pursuit of higher income is leading to unprecedented inequality and anxiety, rather than to greater happiness and life satisfaction.”
In his exposé, Dr. Sachs tells us, “In the US, GNP has risen sharply in the last 40 years, but happiness has not. Instead simple-minded pursuit of GNP has led to great inequalities of wealth and power, fueled the growth of vast underclass, trapped millions of children in poverty, and caused serious environmental degradation.”
Professor Sachs then concludes that, “The mad pursuit of corporate profits is threatening to us all.”

So waddya think?
Wassat?
You want more?
Oh I got more baby!

In this piece, craftily titled Maslow 2.0: A New and Improved Recipe for Happiness, Dr. Ed Diener, a University of Illinois psychologist, goes on to interpret a global study of individual and collective well-being. Here then are just a few highlights…
“Focus—away from money-measures—should be considered, in light of findings that income has little impact on happiness.”
“Policy itself follows from what is measured, and if all that is measured is money, all policy will be about money.”
“The needs that are most linked with everyday satisfaction are interpersonal ones such as love and respect.”

OK. Hang on. Let’s take a step back. Let’s ask…
What the heck does all this mean?
Well, here are my two cents.
Going all the way back to Richard Easterlin, study after study after study have all arrived at the same conclusion.
And the conclusion is this; More money, for someone who has none, goes a great deal toward increasing happiness.
But then, once you’re rich enough, that extra moolah has very little (if any) impact on your overall well being.
And if you’re ready to accept that (yeah, yeah, I know, for some of you that’s a big if), if you’re really ready to accept that.

The question then boils down to… How much is rich enough?
Well, lucky you, do I have an answer for you!
Just take a look at my post Five Ways to Know You’re Rich.
A bit of an eye opener, no?
Just think, just like it says in that big bank’s advert—the one that many Canadians will recognize—You’re richer than you think!

So now,
Where does this leave us?
Well it leaves me with mucho food for thought.
And it leaves you—probably—wondering whether to believe all these new-found mumbo-jumbo.
And you know what?
For your sake…
I hope you do.
And, if you don’t.
Well, there’s always cuticling your toes.

OK. So. If you’re a regular reader, you probably read last week’s post and you’re now probably thinking, “Hey, didn’t you say you’re too busy to blog? Didn’t you say you’re working on another book?”
Well, golly yes, I did say that.
And yes, I am working on that new novel.
But.
It’s friggin’ hard work you know. And sometimes I feel as though I need to hide from it.
I mean, I have this character—in the book.
This bloody enigmatic character. This compelling, larger than life character…
Who just about created himself.
And he’s hounding me. Day, and day after day. He’s demanding! He’s exhorting! “Tell them about this! Tell them about that! Don’t leave out this part, it’s important!”
He keeps popping up in my head, all the time, all the goddamn time.
You know, there are days, I’d like to shoot the bastard.
But, the thing is…
By the first chapter,
He’s already dead.

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August 30, 2011

I Hate Money

Her statement was as bold and assertive as the graphic above.
We were having an informal chat, four of us, over a coffee. We were enjoying the moment, discussing trifles—work, travel, the cost of this and that.
Then she blurted it out, “I hate money!”

Let me explain something.
Like two acquaintances discussing the day’s weather forecast, the topic of money, in my line of business, is always brought up. It’s a given—given what I do.
But it’s the mechanics of money that usually get discussed with my business clients. You know, arcane topics like cash-flow; profit & loss; tax. You know; the fun stuff!

So what do I say, when someone close to me chooses—with the venom of a thousand rattlesnakes—to suddenly announce “I hate money”?

I guess I could have used my soft-skills, that deep, ticklish, tuned-in stuff.
I could have, I guess, brought up perception and beliefs, culturally-conditioned beliefs that we all grow up with, and that, unknowingly, form and shape our views and opinions.
I could have—I guess—talked about society’s view of money. How money, especially in our western world, is often used as a scorecard. A tool used to classify, rank and evaluate those we know and those that we don’t.
And, I could have then suggested that, to her, that is a ridiculous and odious notion
I could have—I guess—done any of the above.

But I didn’t say any of that.
Why not?
Oh, many reasons. Most of them, weak-kneed
It was a Sunday morning. Quiet and calm. It was, up to that point, an enjoyable, informal chat made even better by a just-right cappuccino.
But, most of all, I guess I just wasn’t ready for such a strong, seething sentiment.
So—you might wonder—what did I say? How did I reply to such a powerful and emotional outburst.
All I did was, put my coffee cup down, and say, “There are many that do.”

My question, therefore, is this. What would have said, if you were in my place?

Yes, by the way, I am aware that yesterday’s blogpost suggested my presence here would be sporadic. Why then a post the very next day?

I have absolutely no idea.

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August 28, 2011

Take two

Starting a business. Bankrupting a business. Selling a business.
I’ve had a hand in all of that.
Chasing VCs, appealing to lenders, debating tax audits.
A lot of it—most of it—was hard work.

Getting my accounting degree. That, too, was hard work. So hard that I still, too often, have nightmares over it.
My dream—no shit—is I get notified, there’s been a mistake, they want the diploma back!
My dream is, I’m one credit short and I have to take another class, write another exam.
Then I wake up in a sweat, my chest heaving; my heart beating out a drum roll.
Christ, I hate that dream.

But the hardest thing I’ve done? You know what that is?
If a university degree is a jog around the block, if managing a business is a marathon, then this thing—this other thing—is like running through the eternal fires of hell.

So, what is this other, all too infernal, thing?
Writing a novel, that’s what.
Writing a novel is like opening your soul, revealing your fears and exposing your most secret embarrassment. Writing a novel is like being seventeen again and asking the prettiest girl at the prom to dance with you. It’s like setting yourself up so that everyone can point and stare. And then laugh at you.
Writing a novel is like disabling your shields, while Klingon warships lurk about. And you’ve got no cloaking device either.

Writing a novel makes my head explode. Writing a novel, I’m left imagining that soon—very soon—there’ll be nothing left. When I’m writing, I can picture every braincell burning up, dying before its time. I picture all that grey matter shrivelling up, drying up, leaving my head vacant—a vacuous, empty space. And leaving me crying, please, no more. I don’t want to do this anymore. Please! I’ll do anything, rub my face against sandpaper, crash my car into a building, watch an episode of Glee. Please! Anything so long as I don’t have to go back and work on this novel anymore.

Writing a novel is hard. And that’s before I start piling on all the other crap. The self-doubt, the self-recrimination. The little voice inside my head that keeps admonishing me, Why are you wasting your time with this? This is stupid. Close Scrivener, for crissake, and do something fun, like a tax return or something.

Then there’s all of that having to deal with other people. People I’d love to talk to, but who won’t give me the time of day—the booksellers, the reviewers and the press. And people I don’t want to talk to. Those people—the friends, family and colleagues. The ones who, for example, return a wry smile when I tell them I’m writing a novel. The ones who leave me wondering Are their eyes rolling? Are they laughing at me? Maybe they’re onto something. Maybe they know I’m no writer. Maybe they’re right, maybe I’m not a writer. Am I a writer?  Am I a fake? Am I getting paranoid? How the fuck do I know? I bloody well used up all my braincells! I can’t even think anymore. Why? Why? Why? Why the fuck am I writing another novel? Oh for crissake, my head hurts. Man, I need to take it easy. Do something else, something fun. Like add up a column of numbers, or prepare consolidated financial statements. Yeah. That’s better, that’s way easier.

You know what I love? Sometimes, when I’m writing, you know what I love?
I love for telemarketers to call. Interrupt me.
When that happens, and when I’m in the mood, they get it—both barrels—verbal buckshot.
All that frustration, that self-doubt, that concern over dying braincells. It all pours out. That little voice inside my head? It gets louder, hostile even. And it gets directed at them. You little shit! Can’t you tell I’m busy? No, I don’t want pet insurance. No, I don’t care if I won a free alligator and a condo in Bora Bora!  No, I don’t need a twelfth credit card. Now go away you slimy, sorry, tree-dwelling primate. Go away and lay your slimy primate ass across two lanes of autostrada traffic.

And, if the above explains the hothead I can be. It also reveals the liar I am.
Because the truth is, I’m never aggressive with telemarketers. Though I’d like to be.
Because the truth is, a telemarketer just called, while I was writing this, and after politely telling her I didn’t need an extended warranty for my Rambler, I couldn’t help imagining how good it would have felt to tell her—uh—all that stuff I wrote up there.

OK back to this novel thing…
Why tell you this?
Why spill my guts—like some hapless drunk to a heard-it-all-before barkeep?
Because, as it turns out, I’m writing another novel—yes, a second one.
Why, you might ask, after such self-inflicted torture, would I bother with another novel?
The answer is simple.
The answer is, even if it’s hard work (the hardest work I’ve ever suffered through), writing remains, paradoxically, the most fun I’ve ever had (with a computer keyboard, of course).
The truth is, many mornings, writing my first book, I’d jump out of bed and run to my computer, so eager was I to get back at it.
The truth is, some days—riding my bike, sitting in traffic, chatting over a coffee—an idea would hit, a great idea. Something, say, about my protagonist. Some clever thing my protagonist just told me.
Because sometimes, when the flow’s, er, flowing, that’s exactly how it feels. It’s like my characters are fully-formed, and talking—telling me important shit.

But that’s not happening to me right now. Not yet anyway. My characters are still, like Frankenstein’s monster, lying on a gurney, getting their act—and their psychological and physical components—together. They haven’t come to life yet.
It’s early days you see. I’m just a few chapters in.
And—for me—these are delicate times.
The characters are only now making themselves known—their strengths, their foibles, their secrets.
At this point, scenes and back-stories, events and plots are almost lava-like. They’re bubbling and cooling. Oozing and solidifying.
And because—for me—these are delicate times, because I’m amortizing grey matter and braincells at an alarming rate, I’m not sure I’ll have any left over for this blog. At least not for the next few weeks.

What I’m saying is… my presence here might be sporadic.
Or it might not.
The truth is, I don’t know.
The truth is, I want to put a dent in this new writing project. I want to develop the characters, bring ‘em to life. I want to, you know, super-size them.
Plus. I need to develop the story, bring that to life. I need to work on scenes, backstories, relationships. I need to set the whole thing too. Like, what city? Where does it all happen?.
Right now I’m thinking, hmmm, maybe Montreal. Or Ottawa, even. Not Toronto though, that’s for sure. Hey! What about New York? Just about every great (and not so great) novel is set in New York. Salinger’s people—his characters—lived there, for crissake.

So, what it means is, on the writing front, this new novel jumps to the front of the queue (Christ, I can’t believe I wrote queue without having to look it up. I mean, how often do you use that word, queue?).

OK, your turn. Is writing hard? Would you rather rub sandpaper against your face? Would you rather talk to a telemarketer? Tell me about. Tell me I’m not alone. Please!

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